


Undone

by Narya_Flame



Series: Nárë a Lindalë [11]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hair Kink, M/M, Not quite PWP, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Seduction, Sharing a Bed, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: Maedhros is trying to concentrate on state business.  Fingon has other ideas - but his efforts to distract his cousin take an unexpected turn.





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/gifts).



Candlelight flickered in the copper-red curls. Fingon rolled onto his stomach, smiled at the furrow in his cousin's brow as he bent over his work, then stretched and returned to the intriguing volume he'd found by the side of the bed.

“'This position will require a stout stool, and a good deal of balance and trust...'” he read aloud, and grinned as Maedhros shifted at his desk. “Maitimo, where did you get this?”

“Celegorm sent it to me.” Maedhros quirked an eyebrow, all poise and calm, though a pink glow crept through his cheeks. “He thought I might find it interesting.”

“I'm sure he did.” Fingon turned the page, and his eyes widened. Heat like a warm summer wind curled through his belly. “Sweet Eru above, how does _that_ work?”

“Since I cannot see what you're looking at, I haven't the slightest idea.”

Fingon rested his chin on his hand and allowed a little mischief into his voice. “If you can leave your trade agreements alone for two moments together, I'll show you.”

Maedhros lifted his head. He watched Fingon for a moment, then a slow smile softened his proud, scarred features, and his eyes grew dark with desire. “When you look like that, you make it very hard to say no.”

“Then don't.”

“Káno...” His voice caught on the half-laughed name. “Come back to the desk. We have much to do.”

“Truer words were never spoken.” Fingon closed the book and returned to his cousin's side. A sharp draught hissed through the room, its edges bitter with smoke and damp stone, and the fire leapt and spat sparks. A wisp of red hair lifted free and stuck to Maedhros's mouth. Impatient, he blew it away; Fingon looped it gently around his finger and brushed it back behind his kinsman's ear.

“I should never have grown it back.”

Fingon paused. He swallowed around a weight of cracked, cold rock. “I am glad you did.”

Shadows yawned as the firelight shifted and stirred. Maedhros breathed out, carefully, deliberately. “Forgive me.” His mouth tightened. “I should not -”

“You can speak of it, Maitimo. If it will help.”

“I think...” Maedhros turned away, and his features hardened. The glow of dusk burned in the wild, silky tresses. “No. I will not. Cannot,” he amended with a humourless smile. “Even now.”

In response, Fingon knelt and took a lock of his cousin's hair in his hand. He pressed it to his lips, tasted it, inhaled its scent – the whisper of pinewood, clean white snow, and, even here in the cold and damp of Himring, orange peel, its freshness as keen as the promise of spring. “I love you.” _I am here for you. I will not let you go._ He released the curl of hair and pressed a kiss into the soft, smooth hollow between collarbone and neck, and smiled at the moan that answered his touch. “Put the quill down, my dear, and come to bed.”

“Not yet.” Maedhros's voice was ragged. “Not yet... _ai_ , Káno...”

Fingon had unfastened the laces of his cousin's shirt, and now slipped his fingers under the cool white fabric, teasing a light trail across the skin. He nipped playfully at Maedhros's earlobe, drawing a yelp and a reluctant laugh, and curled his other hand into the soft waves of red hair. “You've done enough,” he murmured. “It will be there in the morning.”

“I want...”

“I know, beloved.” One fingertip rubbed gently over a nipple, and a deep ache awoke in his groin as Maedhros tipped his head back and whimpered. “I know.”

They rose together, awkwardly, tugging at clothes and running eager hands over skin and through hair. Maedhros took one of Fingon's braids between his fingers, plucked at the gold ribbon woven through it, pulled it free; Fingon eased their leggings down over their hips; Maedhros curved his hand around the back of Fingon's head and pressed their lips together, and Fingon felt the hard edge of teeth and the sweet, seeking tip of his lover's tongue. His breath quickened and warmed, and his erection hardened, blood pulsing, sweat pricking at his temples and between his thighs. Under his fingers Maedhros's skin lifted in tiny, delicate bumps; smiling, he broke away from their kiss, and with his lips he traced a pathway from jaw to breastbone to hip.

“Káno!”

He throbbed at the pleading cry as he took Maedhros in his mouth. The taut skin tasted of sea-salt – and under that, herbs and smoke and evening mist. He closed his eyes and drew slow, lazy circles with his tongue.

“ _Oh._ ”

His cousin's hand fisted into his hair. He moved faster now, teasing, building, flickering over the slick tip until Maedhros's breath came in shallow gasps and his legs shook and he grasped at the bedpost for balance.

“Please – Káno – wait, I'm going to...”

Slowly, Fingon withdrew his mouth. With his thumbs he drew patterns along the bone of the hip, and he looked up and asked with a wicked glint, “What is it? Do you not want to?”

“Yes.” Maedhros swallowed, caressed Fingon's cheek, and then slid two fingers under his chin and lifted his face upwards. “But not this way.”

The air shifted, tightened, seemed to whisper. “What do you mean?”

Gently Maedhros drew him to his feet, rested their brows together. “I...I want you inside me.”

Fingon inhaled. The words echoed through him like a hearth-song. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He stroked the scars, the tattered ruins of the left ear, the stump that he himself had left behind when he had sliced through sinew and bone to cut his cousin free. Maedhros had never told him exactly what had happened in Angband, but Maglor knew, and Fingolfin. They had – obliquely – warned him, and besides, he was no fool. He could guess well enough.

Maedhros drew back and raised an eyebrow. Challenge flared in the cloud-grey eyes, almost daring Fingon to argue with him.

Smiling, Fingon kissed his cheek. “Do you have oil?”

“In the drawer by the bed.” Maedhros slid his hand lower, and he pressed his palm against Fingon's erection. Heat and need surged upwards. “Where you found that book.”

“Should I fetch a stool as well?” Fingon whispered, and felt a hot tickle against his neck as Maedhros laughed.

“I can send a servant for one if you wish,” he returned.

“I suspect your servants would have something to say if they saw us like this.”

A low chuckle. “I suspect they already have plenty to say.” Maedhros kissed a soft trail across his cheekbone and brushed his lips against the sensitive skin beneath Fingon's earlobe. Fingon groaned, arched, pressed against him; Maedhros smiled and kissed his lips. “The bed will do.”

The fire burned low and curled in on itself like a cat. In the dim light Fingon guided his cousin onto his back, stroked the ridges of muscle across his stomach, teased the hard length with gentle fingers. Clear fluid beaded at its tip, and he rubbed his thumb lightly through it, spreading the slickness. Maedhros closed his eyes, moaning, and Fingon ached at the sound. He pressed their mouths together, bit down playfully, and smiled as his cousin writhed under him. His fingers slid lower, circling the entrance, lazy, languid, assured – but all the while watching the beloved face for any sign of tension or fear.

Maedhros half-opened lust-hazed eyes. “Do not worry. I want this from you.” _You could not hurt me._

He gasped as Fingon slid one finger into him, slick with oil. Fingon felt his own need building, burning fiercely even as he worked Maedhros, teased him, kissed his nipples, his neck, stretched the tender flesh of his channel, found the sweet place inside him that sent ripples of pleasure arcing through the body he knew as well as his own. The planes of his face lit like the flares at the heart of a storm. Their breath came in sharp pants, fast, shallow, both of them _needing_...

“K-Káno...!”

Fingon slowed and withdrew. Maedhros gave a low, lingering moan of protest.

“Hush,” Fingon whispered. He shifted, balancing himself, and carefully pushed the tip of his erection inside.

Maedhros's breath snagged, and his eyelids shivered.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” The roots of the red hair were damp, darkening it to the colour of blood. The grey eyes were as fierce as he'd ever seen them on the battlefield. “No. Keep going.”

He pushed harder, and Maedhros rose to meet him, hissing, pressing, pushing back. Fingon waited, letting him breathe, letting him get used to the sensation of it – though he throbbed at the hot, tight skin around his own, and his head grew light with the sensual daze of sex.

“Please, love.” Maedhros's voice, soft and ragged at the edges, brought him back. “Please.”

And Fingon moved, slowly at first, one hand around Maedhros's length, working him in time with the rhythm of their hips, tipping his head back and crying out as the heat, the fire rolled through him, through them both. His breath rose and fell like the waves of the sea. The furs and sheets of the bed were soft beneath his knees; he gripped his cousin's forearm, steadying them both; for a heartbeat alarm shot through Maedhros's eyes, and Fingon's stomach chilled and he cursed himself for a fool – of course Maedhros would fear restraint, in this situation perhaps above all - and then Maedhros gave a feral smile, and behind it was _triumph_ , and he wrapped his legs around Fingon's and pushed them both harder, faster. Fingon groaned deeply as his awareness faded into a wild dance of colour and flame.

“It's...it's alright.” Affection and amusement curled beneath the breathy passion in Maedhros's voice. “Let go.”

He shook his head. “Together.”

He move his hand faster; Maedhros arched under him, crying out, thrusting against him and drawing him deeper.

“Káno, _please!_ ”

The desperate plea undid him. Orgasm broke through him, unmoored him; starlight burst through half-conscious darkness; fire tore through his bones. Dimly he felt Maedhros spasm around him, and shuddered with deep, intense pleasure at the hot seed that coated his stomach and chest. His limbs shook, and he moaned at the sweet, soft waves that pulsed through him, and sank down onto the bed. Arms came around him as he drifted into the afterglow. Lips were pressed against his temple.

“ _Ai,_ Káno.”

He didn't know how long they lay together. When at last he blinked his eyes open, Maedhros had drawn his head against his chest, and was stroking his hair.

“Mm.” Fingon nuzzled against the pale, smooth skin, and felt rather than heard his cousin's laugh.

“Welcome back.”

He shifted, propping up himself on one elbow, still warm and a little dazed. “How do you feel?”

Maedhros smiled and stretched like a great cat. “Exhausted. Sore.” Then, quietly, “Free.”

The rock settled in Fingon's throat again. “Why now? Why tonight?”

A shrug. “I couldn't say. But I could not have planned it.” He reached up and rolled one of Fingon's braids between his fingers. The smooth, blank air of assumed carelessness that Fingon knew from the aftermath of Thangorodrim passed over his face like snow on the breath of the wind. “It had to be an impulse – a need, and not a choice. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” As much as he would ever be able to. He bent and kissed his cousin's forehead. “I love you.”

“And I you.”

The sheet of snow thawed, and Maedhros drew Fingon down into a deep, lazy kiss. He sighed as they parted, and his eyes drifted shut.

Fingon lay quietly beside him for a while, knowing he was not asleep. Almost idly, he curled a lock of red hair around his fingers. He stroked it for a while, and then began to braid it, remembering how he had loved to do this for Maitimo in Aman, long before either of them had dared to admit their hearts.

Maedhros opened one eye. “That was not your first time inside a man.”

It was not a question. Fingon paused. “No.” He had never been able to lie to Maitimo, and would not want to.

But his cousin's expression was curious rather than jealous. “May I ask who?”

“You don't know them.”

"There has been more than one?"

The lifted eyebrow was still playful, and there was no anger in Maedhros's voice. Fingon smiled. “Surely you don't expect me to be chaste while you hide up here in the rock and cold?” Tenderly, he kissed the full, hard mouth. “Do not worry, beloved. In my heart, there is only you.” There was no real need for him to say it; Maedhros knew. “And you were magnificent tonight.”

“As were you.” Maedhros stroked his cheek, and a different kind of longing stirred in his eyes. “Káno, will you stay with me?”

The only light now was the crimson glow of the embers and the flickering gold of the candles. The softness of it almost hid the scars left by his torment; were it not for the stump at the end of his right arm, this might have been the Maitimo of old, whose wit and charm had enchanted the courts of Tirion across the Sundering Seas.

Fingon knew there were a dozen reasons to answer no – the servants, his own retinue, the rumours that would fly from Himring to Nargothrond through all the kingdoms of the Noldor – but when he opened his mouth, the words came to his lips without thought. “Of course.”


End file.
